


someone to you

by saudadeonly



Series: in a world three degrees north [5]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, But technically, Death Eater Sirius Black, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Hurt, Implied Sirius Black/Remus Lupin - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Post-Hogwarts, not really - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saudadeonly/pseuds/saudadeonly
Summary: Remus's life is not at its peak right now. It only goes downhill when Sirius Black, former Marauder, current Death Eater, appears in front of him with Earth-shattering news.
Relationships: Sirius Black & Remus Lupin, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Series: in a world three degrees north [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592227
Comments: 23
Kudos: 125





	someone to you

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am again with my boys. Still not completely satisfied with this one but I think this is as good as it's gonna get.
> 
> Also TW for the barest hint of torture and blood.

_October 1981_

Remus steps onto the cobbled streets of Hogsmeade just as the clock inside the Hog’s Head strikes noon. Although the sky outside is without a hint of clouds and the wind has rather settled in the past hour, the usually lively village is empty, save for a few daring individuals hurrying by with heads bowed, their hands stuffed into their pockets, likely gripping the wand stashed there. No one dares to go out anymore, not in these times, where one misstep could mean death—or worse.

Remus tilts his head back, letting the sun wash over his battered face, soothing the bruises that have not yet disappeared. He has spent too long in the dark forests where light doesn’t reach even on the sunniest of days, stripped of everything that ties him to his humanity, demoted to a growling, begging animal he has always tried to escape from. Even now, in the light of day, in the warmth of magic, his birthright, his home, his stomach turns with the thought of going back there and the knowledge that he must do so soon.

Always, when Dumbledore says. Always, when he asks. Remus is in his debt, after all. It doesn’t matter what Dumbledore’s orders, his _pleas_ , as he so cleverly put it, bring along, what the secrecy does to already crumbling trust. Remus is expendable on all fronts these days.

The Firewhisky he knocked back catches up with him, floating through his head. It makes him melancholic, when before it made him impulsive, quicker to laugh, easier to get lost in life. But there were a lot of things before. Dwelling on them brings nothing good, Remus has learned that the hard way.

He hopes he will be able to see Lily and James and little Harry before he leaves again. He hasn’t seen them in months, not since before Harry’s birthday. Harry must have grown by now, must have learned some new words, become steadier on his feet. Remus has missed all of it.

He wonders if they’ve had to move again or if they’ve opted for the Fidelius Charm already, finally. If they could even bring themselves to choose. Once, their choice might have been obvious but all certainty seems to be gone nowadays. If Remus allows himself to think of _before_ , he can pinpoint exactly the moment it happened.

Remus shakes his head and opens his eyes. He blinks and then again. He hasn’t drunk that much, has he?

Several metres in front of him is a dog, sitting patiently on his haunches, his eyes pinned right on Remus. His black fur gleams in the sun even as the breeze ruffles it. An omen of death; the saviour of Remus’s youth, the bane of his adulthood.

Remus wonders for a moment if he’s been somehow transported to his past. Or maybe he didn’t stop after the second Firewhisky. Maybe he kept knocking them back and is now fast asleep on the table inside. Aberforth is probably smacking him across the face with that dishrag he can’t have washed for the past half a decade right now. Remus is dreaming. He has to be.

It seems almost plausible for a moment, more so than the scene before him but—the dog is skinny, painfully so, and Padfoot never used to be so thin, not even after the end of the summer, and there’s a scar across his muzzle, just barely noticeable, but not a detail Remus’s mind could have just conjured up.

The dog—Padfoot—stands up, giving him a look far shrewder than a dog should be capable of, still as intimidating as he’s ever been, and trots away, clearly expecting him to follow.

Remus doesn’t know what compels him to move after him. Dutch courage probably, or sheer stupidity, which always has been particularly pronounced in Padfoot’s presence, either in his human form or his dog one.

Padfoot slips into a small alley next to the Hog’s Head, probably heavily warded and silenced beforehand, and shifts in the three smooth steps it takes him to reach the wall at the end.

Some common sense slips into Remus’s head, finally. He pulls out his wand, faster than he thought he could, and points it at the man now standing in front of him—tall, gaunt, with a mess of black hair and pale skin.

Sirius Black regards him with cool grey eyes. His hands are by his sides, not reacting, not reaching for his own wand. “You should at least hear what I have to say before you kill me,” he says softly, mouth curving up slightly. The sunlight can’t reach past the musty walls of the buildings around them, painting dancing shadows across his face, the face of Remus’s dreams and nightmares, the face Remus still loves and hates more than anyone else’s.

Remus tightens the grip on his wand. “Why should I?” he asks. His throat burns but he can’t convince himself it’s from the Firewhisky. “You wouldn’t offer me the same benefit.”

Sirius blinks, once, slowly. “No,” he says, “I wouldn’t.” A hand moves toward his pocket, but Remus’s warning spell shooting by his forearm makes him stop. “I’m not going to take out my wand,” he snaps, like it’s an unreasonable assumption on Remus’s part. He pulls up his left sleeve to reveal the wand holster underneath. His wand rests in it, bisecting the Dark Mark scorched into his skin directly. Bile rises in Remus’s throat. “See?” He reaches into his pocket with his right hand, keeping his left arm firmly away from himself, and pulls out a packet that looks like it’s certainly seen better days. Cigarettes, Remus realises, as Sirius places one of them in his mouth, using the tip of his finger to light it.

The smell of menthol and tobacco wafts through the air and Remus has a fleeting flash of a rooftop, a star-specked sky above, a smile. _You’re going to run yourself into the ground with that._

A flash of teeth around the cigarette, a bark of laughter. _Hopefully someone else will do it for me sooner._

Remus shakes the memory away. “What do you want?” he growls. The moon was just a couple days ago; he’s still sore from it and he just wants to go home, not to mention he would rather avoid a murder attempt before lunch. Although, considering he chose to walk into this alley, he has to admit this one is mostly on him.

“You have a spy.” Sirius’s cheeks are hollow as he sucks smoke into his mouth then down into his lungs, more than it should be possible. “Among your—” He waves a hand, long-fingered and elegant, the cigarette hanging loosely from it. “—people.”

“Thank you,” grits out Remus, who most likely the one everyone suspects while they sit around at home and he spends his days being beaten down in an attempt to persuade people to at the very least not fight for the wrong side. “I wasn’t aware.”

“You weren’t?” says Sirius, always Sirius, never Black, not even when Remus hates him more than words can describe. He’s studying the posters along the walls, the ones that are searching for missing people, who are probably long dead or better off missing anyway, and promising awards for the wanted, one of which is currently looking right at them. “Well, someone should have told you.” He tilts his head, a strange reminder of his other form. The smoke curls around him, twining into his hair, curving along the too-sharp arch of his cheekbone. “Huh, I thought I’d be worth more than that.”

 _You were. You were to us,_ Remus thinks. _Where did you go? Why weren’t we enough?_

“ _What_ ,” he says again, with more of a bite, more of that part that he tries to keep hidden otherwise, “do you want?”

“In a hurry, I see,” Sirius says, turning his eyes back on him; they are slate-coloured, vicious, but for all of his impatience, for all of his intent to hurt, there is no smile on his lips, not even a hint of mocking. “Anyway, Peter’s the spy.”

The world stops. The ground sways, Sirius’s figure blurring, sharpening, approaching. There’s a pain in Remus’s chest and no air in his lungs and he knows it’s not from his recent transformation. It’s not worse than Sirius’s face underneath the Death Eater mask was. Nothing is, has ever been, worse than that.

The ground evens out again. Sirius is closer now, his hand twitching toward him as if wanting to steady him, just as Remus’s vision slides back into one picture. It must be the remnants of his shock. Sirius Black would not reach out for a dark creature like him.

“I don’t believe you,” Remus says hoarsely. His fingers are white on his wand, the only real thing in a world tipped on its axis. He doesn’t believe him, but it makes sense all the same. Peter, crafty Peter, who has always known more than he seems to let on, who is much, much cleverer than anyone ever thinks him to be. He wouldn’t be the obvious choice, but he would be the most probable one. He knew about the McKinnons’ party, the wards surrounding their house; he was one of the few with the knowledge of Fabian and Gideon’s mission, the path they were going to take; he has always been one of the select few entrusted with the secret of the Potters’ location. He is one of the most considered candidates for the Secret Keeper. It all makes a frightening amount of sense. No, no, no. “It’s not possible. He wouldn’t—” He swallows, unable to finish the sentence; he’s told so many lies recently—he doesn’t want to lie to himself as well.

Sirius squashes the butt of his cigarette with the heel of his boot. He reaches into his pocket again, probably to light another one, to laugh at Remus and enjoy in his turmoil. Even if Remus does believe it, he has no proof and no one is likely to take him on his word, not the poor werewolf who has spent more time trudging through the forest in scraps of clothing than watching his best friends’ son grow up. Something Peter could never be accused of.

A fine situation indeed. Maybe Sirius only wanted to antagonise him; maybe that’s why he’s here, telling him this. Remus can think of no other reason.

Something bright arcs through the air and Remus reflexively reaches up to catch it. A small vial rests in his palm, the silvery substance inside swirling, darker than he’s previously seen but he recognises it all the same. A memory, a fragment of someone’s mind.

He looks up at Sirius, who has indeed lit another cigarette. The smoke drifts out of his mouth, then far up, farther than any of them could ever hope to reach. “I believe you’re competent enough to find a Pensieve,” he says.

“I—why?”

Sirius’s eyes are dark, the line of his throat stretching as he leans to the side to blow out the smoke. The pale scar across his cheek, the same one as Padfoot’s, almost blends in with his skin. Remus hates himself for wanting to ask who did it, then track them down and let the wolf destroy. “There are lines.”

Remus raises his eyebrows. “Loyalty?” he asks incredulously. He snorts, wild, raucous laughter bubbling up in his chest. “You’re one to talk.” He tilts his head, looks at Sirius as though he can see through him. He wishes he could and feels the knowledge that he once thought he could cut him like the edge of a blade. “Although you have betrayed one group of allies, I suppose another one is not much more to you.”

“Not loyalty,” Sirius says, lifting his head to look at him, his eyes flashing. “A child’s life, given away in cold blood.”

“You seemed to have no qualms about Edgar Bones’s children.” His stomach turns at the memory of those little bodies, broken, in pools of their own blood. Tortured, maimed to get their father to talk. Not murdered, but butchered. The way Marlene’s family might have been if she hadn’t managed to escape and McGonagall hadn’t been there to pass on the message.

Marlene has only just returned to active duty for the Order, her leg having more complications than the Healers had originally gauged, though there isn’t much to return to. They are defeated on all fronts most of the time, their homes and family the tiniest specks of light that remind them to have hope still. How unfortunate for Remus that he has neither—not anymore, anyway.

“I wasn’t there,” Sirius says. “I didn’t even know.” He sets his jaw, lifts his chin. There he is, the pureblood heir, the fiercest of Voldemort’s soldiers. Oh, how he loathes him. “You have what you need, Remus. This is a debt paid, no more, no less. There will be no other.” Something shifts in him then, Remus can physically see it, his eyes like shards of steel. “Walk away.”

And Remus almost does. He’s already moving to step out of the alley, to Apparate right on James and Lily’s doorstep but a thought stops him. He turns back to Sirius. “They don’t know,” he says, thinking back to the black dog that waited for him in front of the Hog’s Head, with a degree of patience ever so rarely seen to be exercised by him. “About Padfoot.”

Sirius pauses, his hand stopping halfway to his mouth, then shakes his head. Ash drifts to the ground. Maybe it’s a trick of the light but his eyes seem almost sad.

“Why not?”

Sirius takes a deep breath, puffs out the smoke. “That was—ours,” he says. “It’s not theirs to abuse.”

“There were a lot of things that were ours,” Remus says as sharply as he can manage. Elbows in ribs, dog-eared books, James's smile and the smell of tea, the taste of chocolate. The smell of night in the dark corridors, the feel of freedom, of foolish youth. He despises his voice for shaking. “You ruined all of them. Why keep this?”

“I like going to the park sometimes,” Sirius says dryly, “to play fetch with the neighbourhood kids. It would make for an awkward conversation if they saw me.”

“You’re a lousy liar.”

“Quite,” Sirius says with a sardonic incline of his head, the hints of a downturned smile playing on his lips. Then, in an exhale of breath and smoke, “You don’t know me anymore, Remus.”

It hits deeper than Remus likes. He’s done so much to try and forget Sirius but he’s only ever come to the point of hating himself more for not being able to hate him. It’s never made sense, Sirius’s sudden disappearance, his abrupt conversion to Voldemort’s side. They had considered the Imperius curse for some time, then Regulus’s involvement but someone as stubborn and fierce as Sirius would have broken an Imperius a long time ago, not to mention he acts too much like himself to be cursed, and Regulus has been dead for nearly two years. If Sirius ever had any qualms about joining, they seem to be gone now, replaced by stone-cold cruelty and a fierce desire to hurt. Marlene’s nightmares, almost always starring Sirius, according to Dorcas, seem to be proof of that.

The thing about Sirius – Remus has always known, since that first day when Sirius Black stood between him and a group of Slytherins, ready to hex them black and blue, that Sirius has the capacity to be cruel. Sirius might have fooled some people, even James and Peter sometimes, but Remus has always seen the darkness underneath, the uncanny ability to read someone like a book, pinpoint their greatest weaknesses and strike exactly there, a blow that would bring even the greatest to their knees, begging for mercy. It never scared him, not before. Sometimes, when he thought people deserved it, he relished in the way the slope of Sirius’s shoulders would straighten, the way his grin, always a touch mad anyway, would turn into something dark and slick without ever really changing. Remus never told him, never stopped him because most of the time Sirius had a reason to strike, to stab through the chink in the armour and twist the blade, but that was when he looked most like his mother.

He never told him because there was always the kindness underneath, the fierce loyalty, the unapologetic love delivered with a mix of sharp humour and tender words, told like a story in an arm over their shoulders, in soft smiles and sharp elbows, in hesitant fingers over new wounds and old scars, in murmured spells that soothed the pain. Sirius never told them – he only ever showed them. 

But now, looking at this man, grown-up from the boy he loved, this shell of a man who could be his friend, who was his friend once, a long time ago, he doesn’t see any kindness at all, not even a shred of decency.

Remus takes a deep breath, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “No. And I don’t want to anymore either,” he tells him and this time, his voice is firm.

He only allows himself a second to watch the words register, to notice how deep they cut. He feels no satisfaction upon it, only bone-deep weariness, only the rest of his heart shattering apart. Then he turns on the spot and thinks of Harry’s green eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a thing for writing long paragraphs about Sirius, okay...

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